In January to May 2014 Spotlight's 'Times of Life' project took writers of mixed ages from 4 local writing groups to give readings in 6 local community settings.


The project aims to bring together local writers from disparate age groups who are based in Lancaster and Morecambe and give them an opportunity to learn from and support one another.


The writers are being brought together to collaborate in developing intimate performances of their work. The performances are being taken to new audiences based in community settings in Lancaster, Morecambe and Garstang.


The four local writing groups performing are:

  • Today's Writers, based at Heysham Library
  • Morecambe Bay Writers, based at Morecambe Library
  • The Cafe Writers, Lancaster
  • Spotlight Young Writers, drawn from Spotlight's performer base and our 2012 'Listening To youth' project.

 

Driftwood


No golden gleam on the stretching sands of time

Backwards into the grey distances of the mind,

rock strewn and pebble-dashed, spread here and there

with the dark seaweed slime of errors,

the lonely strand waits.


Turn suddenly and you see the sad bodies on Gallipoli's shore,

the driftwood gatherer's dream- your nightmare remains

haunting the morning.

Faggots, bleached branches clustering into grotesque shapes of things best forgotten.


A rusted red rod reminiscent of the top bar of the railing -

they held you there to tightrope walk,

doomed to painful failure;

The white sea washed skeleton of the grey cat

recurrent in the childhood dream.

A gnarled tree root ready to break the toddling steps,

the slipping soft sand dunes of that floundering run in sleep.


Cover the images with the streaked red banners of daybreak.

Make phobias flee before the cleansing winds along the shore.

Let the tides of morning wash away the the driftwood of the mind.


Myrtle Maxwell - Cafe Writers

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Certainty


The sea sucks back

over the Igneous, bottle-shard, 

splinter-rock bay

revealing fissures in the stone

cracks in the sand.


Tendrils clutch,

liquid fingers

shrinking into gutters

- and drop.


Deep in the rifts, 

in the hollow black,

creatures scuttle,

crusted eyes blink;

only a slight shift 

in the water reaches them here.


Their legs click, mouths snap,

their backs spiked and shell-ridden,

they eat Dockwhelk mulluscs

and arthropods


spinning out their lives

in the blind web of it,

in the dregs of the briny drink,

but even here, 



in the small dark,


the crowded bottom,


they survive.



And the ocean rolls in.


Ailish Woollett - Spotlight Young Writers.

 

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